Itch
by CSI Clue
Summary: Sara has a mosquito bite


Title: A Taste of Paradise

Author: Cincoflex

Pairing: Grissom/Sara

Rating: M

Summary: This is for the Summer Sizzler Challenge. #26. Mosquito. Many, many thanks to Lovellama and VR Trakowski for the Citronella Beta job!

Sara wiggled.

Grissom noticed this; catching her squirmy dance out of the corner of his eye was easy since he'd been furtively watching her anyway. The arroyo was dusty and still hot despite the late hour of the night; the two of them were moving through the tall weeds in a last sweep for evidence before calling it a night.

Crickets chirped. Stars shone. And Sara wiggled.

Grissom cleared his throat. Sara shot him an annoyed look as he flexed her shoulders and grunted softly. "Yeah?"

"What's wrong?"

"Mosquito bite."

"Ah. Well don't scratch it." Came his absent chide. Sara gave a little growl, shoulders twitching once more as they made their way back to the Denali. Grissom waved to the police cruiser, calling to it over the dusty road. "Thanks, Mike. You guys can head on out; we're done here."

Giving a nod, the patrolman pulled his ass off the back panel of the patrol car and headed for the driver's seat while Grissom loaded evidence in the back of the Denali. Sara handed him three bags of Gremlin parts and pulled open the passenger side door. Instead of climbing in however, she carefully pressed her spine against the edge of the door and rubbed her back against it.

Grissom looked around the side of the car, watching her. "Sara."

"It itches, okay?"

"You look like---" he stopped, aware that what he was going to compare her to had changed the minute she rocked her slender hips. Originally he'd wanted to tell her _You look like a grizzly up against a Redwood, _but that didn't fit now, no, not for the slow sweet bump and grind Sara was waggling up on the edge of the door.

Grissom flushed a little; in the twilight darkness, Sara's movements had a lascivious quality to them. The fact that she was in low-slung jeans didn't help his composure much either. She gave a little sigh. "I look like--?" she prompted him.

He slammed the hatch of the Denali with more force than it needed. "You look like a dark-eyed Houri, dancing in the shadows of the evening."

Sara snapped her head forward, startled at this poetic turn. It was almost enough to get her to stop rubbing her spine. Almost. Grissom stepped around the back of the Denali and arched an eyebrow at her. Around them, the wind blew in little puffs through the desert, and the dim light of a gibbous moon shone down, touching everything with silver. Far in the distance the city of Sin glimmered like a Rajah's palace.

"Whoa. A dark-eyed **what**?" she demanded in a husky voice. Grissom stepped forward, feeling a small smile on his mouth.

"A dark-eyed Houri. One of the beautiful virgins promised to the Islamic faithful upon their ascent to heaven. They dance and sing for their husbands to be, and feed them the best and finest that paradise has to offer."

Sara paused, her expression startled. "Okaaaay. But I'm not dancing, I'm trying to scratch a mosquito bite that's right between my shoulder blades and I can't REACH it, so I don't think I'm going to be offering you any peeled grapes at the moment."

Grissom laughed softly. He came closer, looking down as Sara gave another little chuff of frustration and pressed harder against the car door edge. "Stop. For one thing, you're going to grind dirt into the back of your shirt. For another, it's not going to soothe the itch. There are better remedies for a mosquito bite."

"Yeah, like what? We don't have any calamine lotion, and if you rub alcohol on it I'll scream," Sara warned him, half-seriously. Grissom shook his head. With a little move of his hand, he gestured her away from the car door and she stepped closer to him, shifting into his personal space easily. Grissom breathed in her scent, feeling the secret thrill once more, the frisson of private pleasure Sara's aura always gave him.

"Well, one of the tried and true cures for a mosquito bite is saliva," he murmured huskily. Sara grinned up at him, her teeth white in the moonlight, her laugh low, amused.

"You are SO not going to spit on my back, Grissom. I don't care if you ARE my shift supervisor, I think I'd rather itch," came her chide. He cocked his head and held out two fingers, stretching them towards her. She stared at them. "Oh. MY spit—I knew that."

"Your saliva. The theory is that the enzymes in it soothe the inflammation, although I wouldn't know, since mosquitoes generally don't bite me."

"Why not?" Sara demanded curiously.

Grissom shrugged. "Because I'm not a dark-eyed Houri dancing in the shadows of the evening."

That brought a smirk, followed by another round of twitching as Sara grumbled a little. She gave a sigh, and shifted, moving to stand up against the Denali, facing it. "Okay, I'm going to go crazy if I don't DO something about this bite, so—"

Grissom moved behind her as she used one hand to hold out the edge of her short tee shirt. He paused a moment, aware of this new line about to be crossed.

They'd circled around each other in an ever-tightening orbit for long enough—years—and now that Grissom had taken the first steps, the sweet progression thrilled him. In the past few weeks he'd taken Sara to breakfast, and kissed her when they parted; lightly and possessively. They'd gone to the movies, and coffee afterwards, indulging in shyly affectionate necking. She met up with him after work; he brought her tea.

Closer and closer, without ever once having to discuss it.

"Grissom?" her voice brought him back to the moment, and he shifted, sliding his hand up along her back under her shirt. The feel of her warm silky skin stretched over the delicate knobs of her spine stunned him; aroused him. Grissom let his palm glide up slowly, feeling her draw in a quick shuddery breath at his touch.

When he reached her upper back, he paused, perplexed. Skin, shirt—

"Grissom?"

"You're not wearing a bra." He didn't mean to make it sound like an accusation, but the slight shock in his tone made Sara laugh.

"Blame it on the heat—when I knew we were going to be out here I ditched it in my locker. Bras collect too much sweat."

He made a noise then; a purely masculine, delighted little grunt that Sara didn't miss. She looked over her shoulder at him in the twilight, and in a slightly quavering voice added, "I'm still itchy."

"Umm," Grissom replied, fingers spreading along the butterfly wings of her scapulas. He found the bite, a small heated bump just off to the side of her spine and the minute he touched it, Sara growled a little, trying to press back against his fingers.

"Yeah, right there—scratch already!"

"No scratching," he reminded her as he leaned closer, nearly pinning her to the side of the car. "You've seen what's under fingernails, and the potential for infection is too great."

"Yeah, like spit's any more sanitary!" Sara whined back. Grissom laughed at her frustration. He gave a soft sigh, and lingeringly, slid his hand back down along the sleek long muscles of her spine.

"Your skin is only broken minutely from the bite at this point, Sara—a pinprick at most. If you use nails, you widen the wound and expose more of it. Be patient."

"But it's ITCHY!" came her retort. Grissom brought his hand up and around to her face, fingers before her lips. Sara stared at them a moment. "And now I don't have any spit—saliva," she corrected herself peevishly. Part of her discomfort stemmed from the mosquito bite, yes, but another part was sheer reaction to Grissom's proximity; to his slow and gentle looming over her.

He flexed his fingers lightly. "Think you could tolerate MY saliva?"

"Yes, yes, whatever, just DO something!" Sara pleaded, wriggling a little again, caught between the side of the car and Grissom himself. A puff of hot air off the desert floor sent some sand skittering along the road, and rattled the tall weeds around them.

Grissom shifted slowly, and brought his hands together at the small of her back, spanning it under his outstretched fingers, glorying in the living warmth of Sara under touch; the velvet of her faint down at the base of her spine, the lean muscle, trembling even now.

He slid his hands up, catching her tee-shirt on his wrists, moving the fabric higher to expose her back in the dim light. Sara's skin gleamed, and the pearls of her spine stood out in a slender column. Grissom parted his hands to rest on her shoulder blades, bent down before his courage failed him and gently, slowly . . .

. . . licked her back. His tongue flicked out to stroke, just under the salty, slightly coppery taste of the mosquito bite, sliding over the skin. Her taste hit him all at once: sweet feminine sweat, hints of soap, body salt and the scent of fabric softener.

Sara arched in instant reaction, her back flexing, her hands gripping the roof of the Denali in a scrabble of nails. "Oohhhh God—Grissom!" Her tone tried to be outraged, but came out in a strangled huff of pleasure, the sound carrying across the night.

Grissom let his hot breath cross her wet skin, cooling it, making goose bumps rise all around the forgotten mosquito bite. He smiled, pleased at his handiwork, and experimentally licked again.

Sara shuddered, her thin frame shaking now as the wet sear of Grissom's tongue, combined with the soft, nearly unbearable tickle of his whiskers stretched along her spine, sending sharp spikes of sensual pleasure deep between her thighs. This move of his; deliberate, gently aggressive and undeniably sensual had her tensing now, unconsciously widening her stance.

Yielding to him.

When Grissom lifted his head to look over her shoulder, Sara turned her face blindly to him, too close to focus on his face, but aware of his breath on her ear and on the side of her face. She gave a strained little sigh.

"Better?" he whispered, his voice deep. Sara squeaked.

"More."

"Are you sure?" Grissom asked with slow politeness, his grin flashing out. Sara gave a tiny scowl of piqued femininity then, hunched her back, aware that the rounded curve of her breast was exposed now.

"Grissom—" it was a plea and a warning; he leaned in and let his beard tickle the side of her throat, then bent and dragged his tongue along the tender join of her neck and shoulder.

The response came instantly in the form of a gratifying moan, loud and deep rumbling out from Sara's lips. Grissom's arms slid around her bare waist, pulling her away from the Denali and up against him as he continued to nuzzle the sweet curve of the back of her neck, nosing into her hairline. Sara squirmed, and the moment she rocked back, pressing to him in a full body contact, the two of them sighed in a mingled duet of pleasure.

After a few more nibbles and licks, Sara could stand it no more, and turned in Grissom's arms, sliding her own around his shoulders, pulling him to her with a tug of such surprising power that he stumbled a bit. They thumped together against the Denali, neither hurt, both asking the other in quick, urgent whispers before Sara slowly tilted her head and pulled his mouth to hers.

The slick sweetness of her kiss, deepened to invite him in, nearly undid Grissom in that first thrilling moment. He trembled when the saucy tip of her tongue glided out to the tickle the seam of his lips and he parted them gratefully. One kiss blended into another, the slow ebb and rush of each building and lingering as they found their fit, and learned each other's delights.

It would have lasted for hours; all night easily if Grissom had his way. So much of Sara to kiss, so much to worship with lip and breath, nip and suckle—the keen edge of his desire grew sharper with each caress. From the dazed concentration on Sara's flushed face, it was clear the delight was mutual and just as gratifying. Grissom relished the one thought ringing through him with the vibrating power of a sandstorm.

_At last. This. Is. Real._

And then, in a quick quiet pause for breath, just when both of them knew something needed to be said, Grissom looked up, and Sara did too, both of them silent as a tiny, high pitched whine buzzed over their heads.

Sara laughed. "Grissom, I have another bite. After work, you wanna come to my place and soothe my itches?"

He laughed, soft and low in the night air. "I'd lick that very much."

End


End file.
